Bond hung up, dialled the operator again, and within seconds was speaking to the Duty Officer at the Regent’s Park Headquarters in London.
‘Rome’s men are dead,’ the officer told him flatly. ‘They were found in a ditch shot through the back of the head. Stay on the line. M wants a word.’
A moment later he heard his Chief’s voice, sounding gruff. ‘Bad business, James.’ M called him James only in special circumstances.
‘Very bad, sir. Moneypenny as well as my housekeeper missing.’
‘Yes, and whoever has them is trying to strike a hard bargain.’
‘Sir?’
‘Nobody’s told you?’
‘I haven’t seen anyone to speak to.’
There was a long pause. ‘The women will be returned unharmed within forty-eight hours in exchange for you.’
‘Ah,’ said Bond, ‘I thought it might be something like that. The Austrian police know of this?’
‘I gather they have some of the details.’
‘Then I’ll hear it all when they arrive. I understand they’re on their way. Please tell Rome I’m sorry about his two boys.’
‘Take care, 007. We don’t give in to terrorist demands in the Service. You know that, and you must abide by it. No heroics. No throwing your life away. You are not, repeat not to comply.’
‘There may be no other way, sir.’
‘There’s always another way. Find it, and find it soon.’ M closed the line.
Bond unhooked the CC500 and walked slowly back to the car. He knew that his life might be forfeit for those of May and Moneypenny. If there was no other way, then he would have to die. He also knew that he would go on to the bitter end, taking any risks that may resolve his dilemma.
It took exactly one hour and thirty-six minutes for the two police cars to arrive. While they waited, Nannie told Bond about the founding of Norrich Universal Bodyguards. In five years she had established branches in London, Paris, Rome, Los Angeles and New York, yet never once had she advertised the service.
‘If I did, we’d get people thinking we were call girls. It’s been a word-of-mouth thing from the start. What’s more, it’s fun.’
Bond wondered why neither he nor the Service had ever heard of them. NUB appeared to be a well kept secret within the close-knit circles of the ultra-rich.
‘We don’t often get spotted,’ she told him. ‘Men out with a girl minder look as though they’re just on a date; and when I’m protecting a woman we make sure we both have safe men with us.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve seen poor Sukie through two dramatic love affairs in the last year alone.’
Sukie opened her mouth, her cheeks scarlet with fury, but at that moment, the police arrived. Two cars, their klaxons silent, swept into the glade in a cloud of dust. There were four uniformed officers in one car and three in the other, with a fourth in civilian clothes. The plain-clothes man unfolded himself from the back of the second car and thankfully stretched out his immense length. He was immaculately dressed, yet his frame was so badly proportioned that only an expert tailor could make him even half presentable. His arms were long, ending with very small hands that seemed to hang apelike almost down to his knees. His face, crowned with a head of gleaming hair, was too large for the oddly narrow shoulders. He had the apple cheeks of a fat farmer and a pair of great jug-handle ears.
‘Oh, my God.’ Nannie’s whisper filled the interior of the Bentley with a breath of fear. ‘Show your hands. Let them see your hands.’ It was something Bond had already done instinctively.
‘Der Haken!’ Nannie whispered.
‘The hook?’ Bond hardly moved his lips.
‘His real name’s Inspektor Heinrich Osten. He’s well over retirement age and stuck as an inspector, but he’s the most ruthless, corrupt bastard in Austria.’ She still whispered, as though the man who had now started to shamble towards them could hear every word. ‘They say nobody’s ever dared ask for his retirement because he knows too much about everyone – both sides of the law.’
‘He knows you?’ Bond asked.
‘I’ve never met him. But he’s on our files. The story is that as a very young man he was an ardent National Socialist. They call him Der Haken because he favoured a butcher’s hook as a torture weapon. If we’re dealing with this joker, we all need spoons a mile long. James, for God’s sake don’t trust him.’
Inspektor Osten had reached the Bentley and now stood with two uniformed men on Bond’s side of the car. He stooped down, as though folding his body straight from the waist – reminding Bond of an oil pump – and waggled his small fingers outside the driver’s window. They rippled, as though he were trying to attract the attention of a baby. Bond opened the window.
‘Herr Bond?’ The voice was thin and high-pitched.
‘Yes. Bond. James Bond.’
‘Good. We are to give you protection to Salzburg. Please to get out of your car for a moment.’
Bond opened the door, climbed out and looked up at the beaming polished-apple cheeks. He grasped the obscenely small hand, outstretched in greeting. It was like touching the dry skin of a snake.
‘I am in charge of the case, Herr Bond. The case of the missing ladies – a good mystery title, ja?’
There was silence. Bond was not prepared to laugh at May’s or Moneypenny’s predicament.
‘So,’ the inspector became serious again. ‘I am pleased to meet you. My name is Osten. Heinrich Osten.’ His mouth opened in a grimace which revealed blackened teeth. ‘Some people like to call me by another name. Der Haken. I do not know why, but it sticks. Probably it is because I hook out criminals.’ He laughed again. ‘I think, perhaps, I might even have hooked you, Herr Bond. The two of us have much to talk about. A great deal. I think I shall ride in your motor so we can talk. The ladies can go in the other cars.’
‘No!’ said Nannie sharply.
‘Oh, but yes.’
Osten reached for the rear door and tugged it open. Already a uniformed man was half helping and half pulling Sukie from the passenger side. She and Nannie were dragged protesting and kicking to the other cars. Bond hoped Nannie had the sense not to reveal the .22. Then he realised how she would act. She would make a lot of noise, and in that way obtain legal freedom.
Osten gave his apple smile again. ‘We shall talk better without the chatter of women, I think. In any case, Herr Bond, you do not wish them to hear me charge you with being an accessory to kidnapping and possibly murder, do you?’
7
THE HOOK
Bond drove with exaggerated care. For one thing, the sinister man who now sat next to him appeared to he possessed of a latent insanity which could explode into life at the slightest provocation. Bond had felt the presence of evil many times in his life, but now it was as strong as he could ever recall. The grotesque Inspektor Osten smelled of something else, and it took time to identify the old-fashioned bay rum which he obviously used in large quantities on his thatch of hair. They were several kilometres along the road before the silence was broken.
‘Murder and kidnapping,’ Osten said quietly, almost to himself.
‘Blood sports,’ Bond answered placidly. The policeman gave a low, rumbling chuckle.
‘Blood sports is good, Mr Bond. Very good.’
‘And you’re going to charge me with them?’
‘I can have you for murder,’ Osten chuckled. ‘You and the two young women. How do you say in England? On toast, I can have you.’
‘I think you should check with your superiors before you try anything like that. In particular your own Department of Security and Intelligence.’
‘Those skulking, prying idiots have little jurisdiction over me, Mr Bond.’ Osten gave a short, contemptuous laugh.